by D. V. Bishop
But Florence endured, thriving when times were good and surviving when life was not. Some said it was a beacon of beauty and artistry in a world full of conflict and doubt. Bindi cared little for such notions. All the sculptures and frescos would crumble to dust in time. It was the city’s system of justice that made Florence great.
The segretario waddled into the Podestà not long after curfew lifted. Days were short in winter, leaving little time to achieve all that must be done. Even when the Otto was not sitting, swift and purposeful justice did not remain idle. Legal papers still had to be prepared, and a vigilant eye maintained on any outstanding matters. The rule requiring new magistrates be installed thrice a year – intended to stop anyone abusing the power of the Otto – made preparedness even more important. How else could the court’s functionaries guide the Otto towards a correct decision in matters that might otherwise be ill-judged?
Duke Alessandro’s morning briefing was another reason to start early. Recalling what had happened on Monday still brought Bindi a blush of shame and anger. That was bad enough, but now a mere officer was reporting to the Duke about matters arising from the moneylender’s murder – a flagrant breach of established protocols! It had been pointed out to His Grace that granting a daily audience to the likes of Aldo was highly irregular, but Alessandro was not to be gainsaid in the matter. His wishes must come first, as the Duke had pointed out. No matter how vexing they might be, nor what further humiliation they might cause. So be it.
Bindi stalked into his officio, slamming the door behind him. A pox on all those who achieved power not through a lifetime of hard work and endeavour, but by the mere accident of whoever happened to be their father. That a half-Moorish bastardo like Alessandro could command such a glorious city by whim and caprice – it rankled. It rankled.
But so be it.
Someone was knocking at the door. Bindi lowered himself into the sturdy, high-backed chair behind his desk before replying: ‘Come!’
Aldo entered, closing the door after himself. ‘You needed to see me, segretario?’
‘Indeed.’ Bindi beckoned him closer. Aldo was different from most who served the Otto. The majority were brutes, all too eager to enjoy whatever petty power the role offered, thieves ready to snatch up rewards and bribes at any opportunity. Aldo took his due, but no more. He bent the law, but never broke it – or hid such things well, if he did.
Aldo had something of a hunting dog about him – lean, sinewy, ready for action. Most of the men under Bindi’s control had wives, and some kept a mistress. But not Aldo: he slept in a bordello. Despite that, he was literate, had proven himself a shrewd judge of character and was certainly no man’s fool. In short, Aldo was one of the best officers serving the Otto.
Bindi would have deemed Aldo a threat had he displayed the slightest hint of ambition. The fact Aldo showed none made him all the more suspect.
Most men became uncomfortable when made to wait. They would volunteer answers for unasked questions, eager to babble out secrets or confess their guilt. But Aldo remained quite still, revealing nothing and watching everything. It was beyond insolence.
‘Tell me what you shared with the Duke last night,’ Bindi snapped.
Aldo’s response was unsatisfying: much had been done, but few answers found.
‘And what didn’t you tell His Grace?’
Aldo rubbed a hand across his greying stubble. ‘Sir?’
‘You gave him the facts you could prove. Now tell me what you suspect.’
Aldo frowned for several moments before replying. ‘If the killer’s still in Florence, we’ll need some luck to find him. But it seems likely that whoever hired the killer lives here. Guilt or pressure should force them into the open.’
That could take days. Bindi sighed. ‘You’ll continue giving His Grace a report each evening, but I expect your full report first thing the next morning – what you can prove, and what you can’t. Should anything significant arise, you will tell me first. Understand?’
Aldo nodded. ‘The Duke has given the Otto until Epiphany to find the killer. If we fail, the matter will be handed over to Captain Vitelli and the Duke’s guard.’
The segretario struggled to keep hold of his temper. Taking a murder investigation away from the Otto was an outrage, an affront to the court’s authority. Worse still, it would create a dangerous precedent. That could not be allowed to happen. ‘What do you need?’
‘Another officer would help. Cerchi, perhaps?’
Bindi snorted with disbelief. Cerchi and Aldo’s mutual loathing was notorious. This must be a stratagemma of some sort. ‘Take a constable.’
‘What about Strocchi? He shows promise.’
‘You can have Benedetto.’
The sour response on Aldo’s face was quite exquisite.
Aldo marched down the Podestà staircase, still fuming. Asking for Cerchi directly had been a mistake. The segretario might enjoy forcing the two officers to work together, knowing how much they disliked each other, but only if it was his idea. Aldo cursed himself for not being more artful. Spending a day with Cerchi would have been worth it to prevent that bastardo extorting coin from Corsini’s visitors. For all his flaws, Cerchi was no fool. Soon enough he would realize those men could name others like themselves. Eventually, inevitably, one of them would mention knowing an officer of the Otto. Cerchi’s hunger for having coin in his hand would delay that day, but not forever. Aldo had to get Corsini’s diary and the list Strocchi had made away from Cerchi first.
The prospect of having to work with a raw recruit like Benedetto wasn’t helping Aldo’s mood. The young constable was likely to be a hindrance more than anything else, but the segretario did love his petty victories. Aldo spied Cerchi lurking inside the front gates. Waiting for another blackmail target, perhaps. ‘Made any progress with the Corsini killing?’ Aldo asked as he reached the bottom step.
‘What’s it to you?’ Cerchi snapped, face full of disdain.
Aldo feigned a smile. ‘Nothing. I just don’t like losing a decent informer.’
‘There was nothing decent about that pervert.’
A prudent man would walk away, instead of rising to the bait. ‘A poor choice of words on my part,’ Aldo agreed. ‘I was thinking about what you asked yesterday. Corsini once said some of his clients could get violent. If you think one of them is the killer . . .’
‘Keep your thoughts to yourself,’ Cerchi replied. ‘The last thing I need is your help.’ He stalked away, crossing the courtyard and going into the small chamber off the cloisters where officers stored their cloaks and weapons. As the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind Cerchi, Benedetto strolled in through the Podestà gates, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
‘You’re helping me today,’ Aldo told the weary constable, striding past him and out through the gates. ‘Try to keep up.’
Aldo headed south from the Podestà, Benedetto scampering along beside him. ‘I’ve been with the Otto since the end of November,’ the constable volunteered. ‘Mamma thought it’d be good for me. She says I ask too many questions.’
‘Anyone can ask questions. Listening to the answers is what matters.’
‘Of course.’
‘Not just what people say, but what they don’t. Their sins of omission.’ Aldo jagged left along a dark, narrow street. Buildings rose on either side, the upper levels jutting out so only a sliver of grey sky was visible overhead. The weather was turning. No snow yet, but the air had a crisp bite. Aldo avoided the dung outside a stable, but Benedetto was not so quick. ‘How people stand tells you a lot. Folded arms often show they’ve something to hide.’
‘I see,’ Benedetto said, hopping on one foot and shaking dung from the other.
‘When we get to via dei Giudei, watch and listen. Understand?’ Aldo turned right.
‘Yes,’ the constable replied, just about keeping pace. ‘Can I ask a question?’
Aldo nodded.
‘We’re heading towards Santa Croce. Aren’t most J
ews south of the river?’
Perhaps this constable wasn’t so empty-headed as he looked. ‘I need to meet an informant first. They won’t talk near strangers. Stay here, I’ll be back soon.’
Leaving the constable to scrape his boot on a doorstep, Aldo went on another three streets to Renato’s workroom. He deserved to be warned about Cerchi, what the bastardo was capable of doing. But when Aldo reached the workroom all the staff were gossiping outside. A fabric cutter said Renato had set everyone to work before going out earlier. Nobody knew when he’d be back, but they weren’t expecting him soon. The warning would have to wait.
Strocchi found his third church visit of the morning as frustrating as the first two. Nobody recalled anyone like Corsini. Didn’t the constable realize how many masses there were between Christmas and Epiphany? No, the cloth from the courtesan’s dress did not look familiar. And the church certainly did not allow courtesans within its walls. The idea was repugnant.
Strocchi didn’t bother with polite questions at Santa Croce. Instead he cornered a young priest in a side chapel, demanding answers. It was well known that courtesans used church services to attract men – why else make women without families sit on one side of a curtain? The priest kept glancing at a sour-faced, grey-haired woman praying nearby. ‘Please, you shouldn’t speak of such things here.’
Strocchi refused to match the hushed whisper. ‘Did you notice any new faces among the courtesans at mass on Sunday?’
‘I don’t pay them any attention.’
‘So you admit they were here.’
‘Please, I have duties to attend to.’
‘And I’m trying to find out who beat a young man to death.’ Strocchi brandished the handful of fabric. ‘Have you seen anyone wearing a dress made of this?’
The priest peered at it, shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, truly I am.’
Strocchi let him go, despairing at the unwillingness to help. Where was the sympathy for those struggling with sinful lives? When did conviction usurp compassion or forgiveness?
The constable caught sight of his angry reflection in a window. Holy Madonna, what was this city doing to him? Bullying a young priest, that was worthy of Cerchi. No matter the righteousness of the questions, there had to be a better way of finding the answers. Strocchi knelt down to pray for guidance. A reply came sooner than he expected.
‘You wanting a courtesan?’ a hoarse voice whispered. Strocchi looked round. The only person nearby was the woman in the pew, her head still bowed. ‘I said, you wanting a courtesan?’ Her face lifted to meet Strocchi’s gaze.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not the way you mean.’
‘All men think that, until they spend a few hours with my mistress.’
Strocchi went to the pew, leaning over it to correct her. ‘I’m investigating a murder. A courtesan was beaten to death. Finding the killers is all I care about.’
The maid shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’ She rose to leave, crossing herself.
‘Wait. Were you here on Sunday with your . . . mistress?’
‘We’re here most Sundays. Why?’
Strocchi showed the fabric. ‘Have you seen this before?’ Her eyes widened. Strocchi moved round the pew to question the maid further, but two priests were stalking towards them – the young one from earlier, and an older, more senior figure.
‘What’s your name?’ the older priest demanded of Strocchi.
‘Find me outside,’ the maid whispered before scurrying away.
After several minutes of being berated by the older priest, Strocchi was surprised to find the maid still waiting outside. ‘The cloth I showed you, where’d you seen it before?’
The maid tilted her head at the church. ‘Here, on Sunday. There was a new courtesan wearing a dress like that. Caused quite a stir.’
‘What did this newcomer look like?’
‘Only saw her from behind. Maids stay at the back.’
‘Could your mistress describe the new courtesan?’
A shrug.
‘Where is she?’
‘Courtesans don’t appear before noon, except on Sundays. She’ll be gossiping with the others at Piazza San Lorenzo this afternoon, if the weather holds.’
Strocchi nodded his thanks. The maid held out an empty palm. Informants expected payment, even from constables. He dug in his tunic and found two silver giuli. The maid glared at the coins, but took them anyway.
Chapter Ten
Aldo hesitated outside the first doorway on via dei Giudei, Benedetto at his side. It’d be another frustrating day if Dante hadn’t made good on that promise. Aldo banged on the door. Eventually it opened to reveal a hunched old man, his long beard thick with silver and grey.
‘I’m Cesare Aldo, an officer of the Otto di Guardia e Balia, investigating the murder of Samuele Levi.’ No reply. ‘He was killed the night before last, just along this street.’ The old man peered at the Levi house, the effort creasing his face. ‘Did you see anything strange on Monday? Anyone you didn’t recognize?’
Still no reply; did he even understand what was being said?
‘We need help,’ Aldo persisted. ‘Unless you and your neighbours tell us what you saw, whoever murdered Levi will escape justice. Is that what you want?’
The old man glanced at Benedetto before reaching for the door.
‘This is important,’ Aldo said, but the door was already swinging shut. He shoved a boot against it, betting his resolve was stronger than the old man’s push. ‘Malachi Dante, he talked to you, yes? Dante promised you would help us.’
The old man stopped pushing the door. ‘Dante?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘So I hear,’ Aldo agreed. ‘What can you tell us about Samuele Levi?’
The old man – Moise Bassano – didn’t have much to say. Levi was ruthless, even by Florentine standards. Dante had been a moderating influence; after he was forced out, Levi doubled rates to squeeze every last giulio from his debtors.
Bassano had more sympathy for Rebecca – a beautiful young woman with a kind heart, the image of her poor mother. How that child ever sprang from the loins of such a grasping, unhappy man was a mystery. Perhaps she was put on this earth to temper her father; but if so, it hadn’t worked. The world would be a better place without Samuele Levi, and few Jews on the street would disagree with that.
Aldo nodded, encouraging the old man to keep talking. ‘What about his debtors? We’ve heard Levi was lending to outsiders, strangers.’
A shrug. Bassano paid little attention to such comings and goings, due to his failing eyesight. Everything was becoming a blur, fading away from him. To have lived this long in such a world was a curse. But it was the way of things.
Aldo thanked the old man. ‘Does anyone else live in your building?’
‘No, my Marietta is long gone, and we were never blessed with children. Try Doctor Orvieto next door. He looked after me all of Monday night. That poor man has no rest from his patients, no rest at all.’ Bassano retreated inside, closing his door – gently, this time.
‘Levi’s neighbours are talking,’ Aldo said, allowing himself a smile. ‘Now we have a chance.’ He led Benedetto to the next house. A Hebrew inscription was carved into the wood, the name Orvieto below it. The door swung open before they could knock, a keen-eyed man with a stained apron and crimson hands emerging from the dark, a bloody knife in his grasp.
‘You must be from the Otto,’ he said, switching the knife to his left hand before offering his right to Aldo. ‘I’m Doctor Orvieto.’ Realizing the hand was still wet with blood, he wiped it on his apron. ‘Malachi told us you’d be visiting. Please, come in, come in.’ Aldo introduced himself and Benedetto as the doctor ushered them to a large room at the back of the building. It should have been the kitchen; instead it resembled a butcher’s shop.
A dead goat lay atop a table in the middle of the room, its torso split open, exposing the internal organs. Orvieto waved his knife at th
e animal. ‘Fascinating to see the insides of different beasts, don’t you think? To bear witness to our maker’s handiwork.’
Aldo nodded. ‘You’re examining it?’
‘Yes. I have a student with me most days. Taking apart an animal helps teach him the ways of the body before he treats a living patient.’
‘I’ve seen doctors practise their skills on dead swine. They say a pig carcass is close to that of a person in many ways.’
Orvieto smiled, swiping the air with his knife. ‘Alas, the teachings of my faith forbid me from touching that animal in particular. Is your colleague unwell?’
Benedetto was swaying at Aldo’s side, colour draining from the constable’s face. ‘So it would seem,’ Aldo replied. ‘Is there somewhere he can . . .?’ The doctor pointed to the back door. Benedetto lurched past the dead animal, one hand clasped across his face. The sound of retching was audible from outside moments later.
Orvieto draped a bloodstained cloth over the goat before washing his hands in a bowl of water. ‘You don’t seem so bothered.’
‘Fight on enough battlefields, you see worse.’ Aldo watched the doctor, his brisk movements. Orvieto was tall, with wide shoulders and sinewy arms. His hair was brown with flecks of silver, but his long beard had autumn red in it too. Those strong hands were deft and precise, while his warm hazel eyes held a gleam inside them, a familiarity . . . Aldo pushed the thought aside. He was here for information. ‘Was Samuele Levi one of your patients?’
‘Everyone on via dei Giudei is my patient. I help families through illness and infirmity, bring their children into the world. And I see many of my neighbours to their rest – including Samuele, and his poor, dear wife.’ Orvieto wiped his hands on a clean cloth.
